Lo, here the impost of a faith unfeigning That love hath paid, and her disdain extorted,
Behold the message of my just complaining That shows the world how much my grief imported
These tributary plaints fraught with desire,
I send t...
I am writing these
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here
So please excuse the
Here I love you
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other
Here Pushkin's endless exile has begun,
And Lermontov's exile turned out fatal,
The mountain grass has a smell so sweet and gentle,
And only once I managed to discern,
Geue place ye louers, here before That spent your bostes and bragges in vaine: My Ladies beawtie passeth more The best of yours,
I dare well sayen, Than doth the sonne, the candle light: Or brightest day, the darkest night
And thereto ha...
Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,not sticks of burning incense
You lived aloof, maintaining to the endyour magnificent disdain
You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,and suffocated inside stifling walls
Alone you let th...
By night when others soundly slept,
And had at once both case and rest,
My waking eyes were open kept And so to lie I found it best
I sought Him whom my soul did love,
Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,not sticks of burning incense
You lived aloof, maintaining to the endyour magnificent disdain
You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,and suffocated inside stifling walls
Alone you let th...
Here we are all, by day; by night we're
By dreams, each one into a several world
Here war is simple like a monument:
A telephone is speaking to a man;
Flags on a map assert that troops were sent;
A boy brings milk in bowls
when we were here together in a place we did not know, nor oneanother
Abit of grass held between the teeth for a moment, bright hair on the wind
What we were we did not know, nor even the grass or the flame of hair turning to ash on the ...
We have climbed the mountain
There's nothing more to do
It is terrible to come down To the valley Where, amidst many flowers,
One thinks of snow,